You're a Good Kid
by Forkhead
Summary: Skittery has always hoped Tumbler will be able to forget his past, but when someone from Skittery's past shows up he has to face the man to learn something about his present. One-Shot.


_A/N: So, I wrote another Skittery/Tumbler fic. I just love them too much to leave them be, lol. Please review!  
_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Skittery, I don't own Tumbler. The plot is all mine._

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I lean against the brick building, sucking in a deep breath of warm air. You copy me. You lean the same way, you twist your cap so it matches mine, you suck in a breath that's a twin to mine. You've been with me a long time, Tumbler, almost as long as you remember. I know you remember some of the stuff that happened before you met me, you tell me about your mom sometimes, you tell me the good and the bad. I hope you'll be able to forget it all.

It's hell to remember.

"Skittery," You say after a while.

"Huh?"

"Why are we still here?" You ask.

I look down at you again, you're so small. You haven't been growing like you should, but I guess that's not all bad. At least you still look small enough that you can get away with a lot. Don't be hurt by that, it's a good thing that you're small. It means you're able to slip away from people better, able hide in more places if you need to. I only worry because I don't want you to be sick.

"We're waiting to see if he comes today," I tell you.

You nod, satisfied that we have a good reason to stay. You squish up the side of your face and itch your back with the stick you've started carrying. I don't know where you got it, but it looks like mine, just smaller.

I smile at you but you don't notice. You're a good kid, I mean it. You stick by me faithfully, but give me room, too, when I ask for it. I ruffle your hair.

"Hey!" You screech, but I can tell you don't really mind.

The man walks around the corner then. You jolt a little when you notice him.

"Skittery," You say, "Skittery–"

"I see 'im, kid." I tell you. I stiffen when he passes us, he doesn't even glance at you and me, but I stare at him. I wonder how he cannot feel my eyes on him. When I look at you, your eyes are stuck on my face.

"You mad?" You ask.

I unclench my jaw and try to calm down. "I don't know," I say, "I'm just... I don't know. I guess I think he should noticed me or something."

You frown, "I notice you, Skitts." You say.

I smile now, you can make me smile. You've always been able to make me smile. I turn to follow him, and you start after me.

"Where we goin' now?" You ask hoofing after me.

"I'm going where he goes," I say, pointing at the man's back, "I'm seeing if he'll remember me if I make him talk to me."

You nod and keep puffing along after me, trying to match my long strides. You stumble a little when the man turns into a pub.

I first saw him leaving work three weeks ago. At first I didn't recognize him, but he passed close by and he glanced at me and I knew. Now I've been trailing him every night, waiting for him to recognize me. Waiting for my father to hug me to him and cry, waiting for him to say my real name, not 'Skittery', but my real name.

He hasn't seen me yet. Maybe he's just waiting for me to approach him.

I slip inside the door after him, and you follow me closely. You don't like pubs or bars or anything. You told me once your mom used to make you go with her, and that sometimes she'd leave you there so she could go with a man. I try not to bring you into them. When I turn to tell you you can wait outside you've got a determined look on your face, not about to back down, so I let you stay.

My father is already sitting on a stool with a beer in front of him. He's laughing and talking with a few men his age, I don't know any of them.

I suck in a deep breath and start toward him. You slip your hand into mine, ready to follow wherever I lead. I stop short of my father and sit on an empty stool instead. I'm shaking. I have to stop and put my hands to my face and breath deep. I can't believe I'm worrying so much about facing my father. You hop up into the seat next to me and lean forward.

"You okay? You gonna be sick? Wanna I should get you some water?" You ask.

"No," I shake my head, "No. I'm fine."

I wave the bartender over and order you a sarsaparilla, I know you love them even if you pretend not to. You try to save money like that, but I want to give you something special sometimes.

"I'm gonna go talk to him," I tell you, "You wait here and don't move for nothing, right? And I'll be back soon, I'll just be right over there."

You nod solemnly as the bartender slides your drink in front of you and I slip the money across the counter. You watch me stand up and I feel your eyes on me all the way across the crowded, foul smelling room. I glance back and you're squinting at me crooked through the gloomy darkness. I smile and you wave back.

I have to squeeze through a group of people to get to my father. He glances over his shoulder at me, but once again he doesn't pay attention. He keeps laughing, turning his back to me as he talks to the men down the bar.

"Excuse me," I say.

He turns and looks up at me again. I feel a shiver run down my spine, I can't believe it's him, but it has to be. He's changed a lot, but I know him. I've watched him so much these last few weeks that any doubt I had is now gone. I sit on the stool next to him. He watches me wearily then starts to turn away.

"Wait," I touch his shoulder, "Wait."

He glances at his friends; they're still talking, too buzzed to notice that he isn't in the conversation anymore. My father squints at me and I feel my stomach flip, I feel like he's recognizing me, the look on his face has to mean that.

"Aren't you...?"

I nod eagerly.

My father squints at me, he looks angry. I feel myself shrinking under his glare. This isn't right, why is he mad? He left us when I was younger, but he didn't hate us, he and Mama just didn't get along. I start to feel dizzy. What if he had left because of me? I had wondered that so much when I was younger, but when I got older I thought I knew it was them. Now I felt guilt and fear pile onto my chest, weighing me down.

"Why have you been following me?" He asks, his voice is louder than I remember. He leans over the bar and I see the thick wrinkles carved into his cheeks and forehead. He's gray. Not just his hair, but his skin too.

"I-I-I thought you'd want to see me again," I say, my voice sounds small. I stare at the wrinkles that branch from the corner of his eyes in long swirls. I stare at the wrinkles between his ears and his stubbly cheeks. He's changed.

"Listen," He says, "I don't even know who you are."

"Yes you do," I say, "I'm... I'm your son."

He squints at me, "Son?" He laughs, "I ain't got no son."

"Sure you do," I say, I start to feel angry. "You've got two! I'm Stephen. You remember me? Sure you do. You used to work at Tibby's and Mama and you had a little apartment right next to the river. We had Grandma, and Mama's brother and his wife in our apartment, too. We had all their kids with us. You left so you could run your own restaurant in Jersey, right?" He doesn't say anything, nothing. I start to feel tears in my eyes.

"You sent money for a long while." I go on, "You sent me a pair of gloves! They were too big, but I wore them everyday, even after it was too warm to. How can you forget us? Little Amos was named after you, you only saw him when was real little, but when he grew up some he looked so much like you. How can you not remember him? How can you not remember any of us!" I don't know how much he can even understand anymore, I'm crying pretty hard.

He frowns and looks around, unsure of what to do. He sniffs and takes a sip of his beer. He shrugs uncomfortably, "I'm real sorry, kid," He says, "But... I don't have no children. I never had no family, neither."

"No," I sob, "No, you're him!"

"I'm sorry," He says, leaving his half empty beer and his money on the counter before slipping out of the pub.

I stare at the empty stool. I feel cold. How could he not even remember?

You come up then, you're holding your drink but you haven't drank much of it. I try to wipe the tears off my face but you see them anyway. You look so sad it just kills me. You can do that, you know. You just break my heart sometimes, Tumbler. You hoist your little body up onto the empty seat and look at me; your dark eyes concentrated hard on my face.

"Skittery," You say, "You don't need 'im."

You're a good kid.

"You weren't supposed to move," I tell you, sniffing up snot.

You wave your hand, like that wasn't important. You look so grown up when you do it. I try to swallow the sadness but it comes out anyway. Fat tears rolling down my face and splattering my hands. I wish I could forget my past. I want to look strong for you, but I'm not strong. I'm stupid is what I am. We sit, you sipping your drink and me just staring, glum and dumb, at the counter.

The longer we sit, the more I remember about my father. The more sure I am that that man wasn't him. I remember my father was shorter than that man, and he had brown eyes, not blue. He was thinner, like me, and he shouldn't be that old yet. Something about the man did remind me of my father, though. The same thing that I saw in myself, and the first thing I noticed in you.

You see, the look in our eyes isn't like the look in other people's. Most people's eyes glitter, ours shimmer. I know that doesn't make a lot of since, kid, but look at yourself hard sometime and you'll see it. If you don't see it, ask me and I'll show you what I mean.

It's a sadness is what my mama used to say, a sadness that we carry heavier than others. Maybe that's why I ran away from her when we got the letter. I forgot about that letter, but we got one that said my father had been killed in a fire. I ran, I remember now, because Mama couldn't stand that I looked like him. That I had that same sadness that he had. I think the reason she didn't have it was because she couldn't carry it.

Maybe we're not just sadder, but stronger.

I look down at you, your little eyes are still on me, so serious, that same shimmer in them. I guess I'm not like my mama at all. She got rid of her memories of my father, but I kept them close; in my eyes, and in you. Maybe I'm not even trying to forget after all. I guess all along I've been trying to remember, not forget. You shouldn't forget either, what happened to you before it what makes you my Tumbler. My best friend.

You pull out your little handkerchief, the one you bought from a Hungarian man the other day. You payed far too much and I had told you not to buy it, but you love that thing, don't you? You hand me the overpriced handkerchief and tell me to wipe my face. I obey, then smile at you. You can always make me smile.

"You're a good kid," I say.

You just smile.

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End file.
